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  I heard the sound of a lid turning and I smelled coffee. The man asked in the same placid voice, “Would you like coffee? Or a sandwich?” It was almost as if his voice was a mask—it didn’t reveal what he was feeling or thinking.

  I shook my head. Mom didn’t drink coffee, and I’d never developed a taste for it. I wasn’t hungry either. I still felt queasy from the drug—or maybe it was just stress.

  “Well, here’s a sandwich, in case you change your mind.” The man placed what felt like a bread roll in my hand, and almost instinctively I bit into it. I was surprised to find that it was a brie sandwich. Not the sort of thing I would have expected, in the circumstances. The bread was also unusually fresh, and it tasted homemade.

  Even though I was blindfolded, being held captive, and possibly in the hands of murderers, the delicious sandwich made me feel better. It’s hard to believe how quickly you become accustomed to losing your freedom, being blindfolded, not knowing where you are or what’s happening to you.

  I wondered what time it was. Mom would know by now that I was missing. She’d be wild with worry—fearing the worst but trying to stay hopeful. Mommy, mommy. The word seemed to tear through my body. Later, I thought. When I’m alone.

  “Does my mother know I’m alive?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” the man answered, and his inexpressive voice suddenly seemed cold and cruel.

  The van came to a stop, and a second later I heard the door slide open.

  I unbuckled myself and shifted in my seat. Every muscle in my body seemed to ache. It reminded me of my gymnastics days, but this was a different type of pain. I could barely stand up.

  Once again the man and the woman took hold of my arms and led me out of the van. I heard the woman murmur, Poor dear, but her voice sounded like Mom’s, and I decided I’d had an auditory hallucination. I hoped I wasn’t losing my mind. “It’s tension and fatigue—and chemicals,” I said out loud. I hoped tension and fatigue and chemicals were also the reason I was talking to myself.

  We entered a building that I imagined for some reason was an abandoned church. I heard someone emptying the contents of my knapsack on a table and rummaging through my things. Then a door slammed shut and it was quiet. They were gone. I hadn’t even tried to escape.

  CHAPTER 4

  I took off my blindfold.

  My surroundings were nothing like a church, of course. I was in what appeared to be a large, empty warehouse, about the size of a tennis court, with a cement floor, cement walls, and a very high ceiling. Small glass panes ran along the top of one of the walls.

  There was a mattress on the floor, a bridge table, two folding chairs, a small fridge, a standing lamp, two shelves, a pail and mop, and a partition with saloon doors in the far corner. My things were scattered on the table, along with an empty notebook, a pen, three paperbacks, cutlery, a mug, a plate, and a sealed bottle of water.

  My jeans were there too, draped over one of the chairs, and my running shoes had been set neatly on the floor, my socks tucked inside.

  I opened the bottle of water and had a long drink. Then I pulled off the poncho and skirt and put on my jeans. I hated the long black skirt because it had made me think of satanic cults, and I rolled it up and stuffed it inside the pail.

  I walked over to the saloon doors and pushed them open. Several cockroaches scurried into corners. I was facing a tiny cubicle with an oversized sink, very old and rusty, the kind you see in garages and cellars. Luckily, the toilet and shower stall next to the sink were in better shape. In fact, they both looked new.

  The bathroom had been prepared for me. Several rolls of toilet paper had been stacked on a shelf above the sink, along with a plastic cup, a toothbrush, a bar of soap, a small bottle of pale green liquid that I assumed was shampoo, and an unlabeled tube of toothpaste. A blue towel hung from a nail on the wall. I was grateful not to be locked in a closet, but there was something unspeakably depressing about these sad supplies.

  I’d completely forgotten about my period, and no wonder—it had apparently stopped altogether.

  I turned on the faucet and washed my hands and face. It seemed like a gift from heaven, just to be able to splash water on my face.

  I went back to the table to see what they had taken. My passport, wallet, and camera were missing. My watch had also not been returned. A wave of nausea came over me, and I was afraid I was going to be sick. I sat down and lowered my head to my knees.

  But lowering my head made me feel even worse. It was as if someone had turned on a switch in my brain and every horrific scene I’d seen on film or television flashed through my mind. Psychotic sadists who cut off the limbs of their victims one by one, skinned them alive … I realized that I was moaning.

  The terror was unbearable, and I forced myself to repeat out loud what the man had told me: “Don’t imagine the worst. Don’t imagine the worst. You’re not in any danger.” I chanted the words over and over like a mantra, until the images began at last to recede.

  I felt emotionally and physically drained. I was vaguely aware that I was hungry, but I was too tired to care. I glanced at the mattress. It was a large piece of hard foam, almost as wide as a double bed.

  I had somehow failed to notice the typed note lying on a carefully folded army blanket at the edge of the mattress. I froze—there was something horribly spooky about seeing it now, as if it had appeared out of thin air. In my disorientation, I wondered whether someone was watching me through a hidden camera.

  I crouched down, afraid to touch the small sheet of paper. The note said:

  You are here for the purpose of a prisoner exchange. No harm will come to you. There is food in the refrigerator. I’ll visit in a day or two to see that you have what you need. We regret the inconvenience.

  Regret the inconvenience! I almost laughed, but my laughter would have frightened me.

  Under the folded army blanket there were two folded white sheets, a pillow, a pillowcase, and another blue towel. I made the bed, more or less, and lay down. I was a little chilly, and I covered myself with the blanket. I realized that the warehouse was air-conditioned.

  I felt like the last person on the planet. No one knew where I was; no one had any way of finding me. I sat up and hugged my knees. I didn’t want to sleep just yet.

  My stomach began to rumble. I was starving. I walked over to the fridge and pulled at the heavy curved door. It was an old fridge, and the door stuck to the frame unless you pulled hard.

  I expected to see a bottle of milk inside, a loaf of bread, maybe a container of yogurt. But the shelves were crammed with food.

  I cleared the table and began taking out the different containers. There were four baked apples filled to the brim with raisins and almonds, rice pudding decorated with pistachio nuts arranged in a circle, a vegetable salad, a pasta salad, a fruit salad topped with curled chocolate, a bean mix sprinkled with dill, some sort of casserole, two dips, and a bowl of stuffed vine leaves, which I’d tasted on our first day in Greece and didn’t like.

  Odd, I thought, to give a prisoner such fine food. Creepy … no, I wouldn’t let myself get into a panic again. Still, it was the sort of thing you’d expect from a sex pervert—lock you up and then feed you delicacies. I shuddered, and a violent wave of homesickness swept over me. I wanted to be back in my bedroom, in my house, in my city. I wanted to be safe.

  I stared at the gourmet dishes and wondered whether they were drugged. Maybe the note was intended to put me off guard. I’d eat the food, fall into a stupor, and then the pervert would come. He had probably paid them to kidnap me. I tried to shake off the idea that I’d been sold as a sex slave, but I couldn’t get rid of it.

  In the end my hunger, or fatigue, won out. I had to eat eventually; if the food was drugged, there was nothing I could do about it. I dug into the rice pudding, eating it straight from the bowl. It was delicious, and I felt a little better.

  I returned to the bed and pulled the blanket over me a second time. In a few seconds I was asl
eep.

  CHAPTER 5

  I can’t be sure, but I think I slept for a long time. When I finally woke up I was very confused. I knew something significant had happened, but I didn’t know what it was. When I remembered, I found it hard to believe that I hadn’t dreamed it all. I was sure that any minute now the new reality would dissolve and I’d find myself in the katikies with Angie.

  I jumped out of bed and flung myself at the warehouse door. I knew it would be locked, but I couldn’t stop myself from trying to break it down.

  It’s hard to describe the loss of freedom, the feeling of being caged in. A huge, unbearable desire to get out comes over you, and the more aware you are that you can’t go out, the more intense the desire becomes. I’d been locked in for only one night and it already felt endless. How would I survive if I was still here a week from now?

  I looked despairingly at the windows, but they were too high to reach, even if I climbed on the table and chair, and they were probably too small for my body in any case. Besides, how would I lower myself on the other side?

  I allowed myself now to think of Mom—I wanted to think of her. Imagining her response to my disappearance consoled me and broke my heart at the same time. She would do everything she could for me, but she’d be beside herself with worry and fear. Maybe by now she’d received word from my captors and knew at least that I was alive. If they were interested in a prisoner exchange, they’d have to announce that I was safe. And that would give her hope.

  I sat on the bed with the notebook they’d given me and began listing happy memories. Our summers in Vermont, in a rented cottage by the lake. Shelburne Farms—was that where I’d seen the little red schoolhouse, or was it somewhere else?

  Sunday dinners with my grandparents, followed by games around the fireplace.

  Talent-show dances Mom choreographed for me and Angie and our friends Kimmy and Sharise. The end-of-year show at Mom’s dance school.

  Angie’s pool parties. Greece …

  I couldn’t go on. I shut the notebook and put the pen away. The memories were making me too sad.

  My stomach began to growl again. I reread the note they’d left for me, searching for clues, but of course there weren’t any. I placed it on the table, as if it were a living thing, as if it would keep me company. It was my only link to the outside world.

  I took out the casserole—it was made of lentils and rice and some sort of vegetable. No meat in any of the dishes, I noticed. They were probably afraid meat would spoil in this old fridge.

  At least eating was something to do. The fruit salad looked tempting and turned out to be delicious. I’d never had fruit salad with whipped cream and chocolate before. Everything tasted wonderful, in fact, and I was no longer worried about the food being drugged. Nothing had happened after I ate the rice pudding.

  When I’d had enough, I tried the door again. I kicked it, pounded on it, shouted, “Let me out!” until I was hoarse. There was a crack under the door and I lay down flat on the floor and tried to look out. I could see a few blades of grass and what appeared to be gravel. I never thought I’d be so grateful to see a blade of grass.

  I looked at the note again. Even if it was true that I’d been brought here in an attempt at a prisoner exchange, what sort of prisoner were they trying to release? A terrorist?

  That was the most likely answer. They were terrorists, and they were trying to release one of their friends. They would not hesitate to kill me if their friend was not released—and there was no chance at all that the government would yield.

  They probably knew that, and merely wanted to make a point. They would kill me without hesitation as soon as it became clear that the prisoner would not be freed. In fact, even if he was freed, they’d kill me. That’s what terrorists did: they killed ordinary people like me.

  I began crying uncontrollably. Why me? Why me? I repeated over and over. The man spoke English with a British accent but also a foreign one—what kind? There was no way of knowing.

  I would be executed, probably on video, maybe even tortured to death.

  I had to escape. I forced myself to stop crying and focus on a plan of action. The note suggested that only one person would come—probably the man who’d brought me here. If he was unarmed, I might be able to attack him. I kept telling myself that I was in good shape, and that I knew enough karate to startle another person. All I needed was a few seconds. I’d run to the street and a car would see me.

  I had to practice the moves I’d use. I regretted not going over them before I ate. Now I’d have to wait at least an hour.

  I made the bed by spreading the army blanket over the mattress. Then I repacked my knapsack, even though I wouldn’t be able to take it with me when I escaped. There wasn’t anything irreplaceable there: guidebook, pen, sunglasses, map, tissues, deodorant, eye shadow, lip gloss, hand lotion, sunscreen, sunhat, a compact mirror, Tampax, my empty water bottle, and a silver keychain of the Greek god Pan—half goat, half man—that I’d bought at a stall.

  I lifted the lid of the compact mirror. I suddenly had an overwhelming need to see my own face, and I was immensely thankful that I had this small object with me. By taking away my freedom, my hostage-takers had tried to take away my identity, turn me into an object. Seeing myself helped me reject their view of me. I wasn’t a commodity to be traded; I was a real person.

  I stared at my reflection for a long time. I was wearing a sleeveless purple top made of soft ribbed cotton and a necklace with a pendant Angie had made for me. I’d had my hair cut before we left for Greece; I’d asked for a choppy wash-and-wear cut that didn’t need much upkeep. Thanks to Dad’s Dutch ancestry, I never lost the blond hair I was born with.

  It occurred to me as I gazed at the mirror that I looked stunned. I’d always felt my face wasn’t interesting enough, though Angie told me that was a crazy thing to complain about, and that in fact my eyes were unusually soft, which was probably why people tended to trust me. But all I could see now in my eyes was fear and disbelief. I snapped the mirror shut.

  I began to have doubts about attacking my kidnapper right away. He might just respond by killing me immediately. Or he could shoot at me as I ran. Maybe I should pretend to be docile and obedient, and then when he was no longer worried about me, I could plan an escape. As soon as I knew what the routine was, I’d know the best time to do it. God, please help me, I prayed.

  I sat on the bed, leaned back against the wall, and looked at the three paperbacks they’d left for me: David Copperfield, a collection of short stories, a novel about India. I tried to read one of the stories, but I couldn’t concentrate.

  I decided to write Angie a letter. I opened the notebook and wrote:

  Hi Angie,

  So who would have thought our vacation would end with me being kidnapped!! Not the sort of adventure we had in mind … Still, nothing bad has happened yet, and with a bit of luck I’ll be home in a few days and we’ll be laughing about it. Good thing it wasn’t you, there are cockroaches here, you’d go nutso. They don’t bother me, I just pretend they’re the Cockroach Prince instead of the Frog Prince, though I do not intend to catch one and kiss it in order to find out. So the food is good and you’ll be happy to hear all vegetarian. Who has brought me here? That remains to be seen. Maybe the evil queen who wants to be the fairest one of all. Don’t worry, I’m not losing my mind, just remembering all the fairy tales Dad used to read to me, because what’s happening to me is pretty much equally unreal. Lots of love, and whatever you do, don’t blame yourself, you can’t control the universe. Give Pumpkin a kiss and an ear-scratch for me and tell Mom not to worry and try to keep your room in order because I can’t get to you right now to help you find missing beads.

  xoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxo

  I tore a blank page out of the notebook and folded it into an envelope, which I addressed. For a return address I wrote “Chloe Mills, imprisoned by criminals.” In the corner I drew a little stamp with the Statue of Liberty on it. I’d never really thought
about its name before. Liberty: what I no longer had. What I longed for more than anything else.

  I slipped the letter through the crack under the door. I did it as a kind of bleak joke, to make myself feel better.

  But then I had an idea.

  It occurred to me that someone might pass by the warehouse, and I wrote on another sheet of paper HELP! CALL POLICE! and slid it out as well.

  But when I checked a few minutes later, the sheet had blown away. So this time I wrote TAKEN HOSTAGE IN WAREHOUSE NEAR HERE PLEASE HELP ME, CHLOE MILLS and prayed the sheet would blow away where someone would find it. I tore out all the remaining pages in the notebook and repeated the message—the more pages out there, the better my chances.

  At first it made me feel better to send out those messages for help. I prayed for a strong wind and wished they’d left me more than one notebook.

  But then, suddenly, I was scared. If no one saw those pages in time to rescue me, the hostage-taker would see them when he returned. He’d be furious with me. And he’d never bring me paper again.

  I wanted to take the notes back, but it was too late.

  I wondered whether I should risk taking a shower. I was afraid of being in there when my captor arrived, naked and unable to hear anyone coming. But the desire to wash myself won out. I’d simply have to build a barricade.

  Luckily, the door to the warehouse opened inwards.

  I dragged the table to the door and set the two chairs on top of it. I positioned the chairs as precariously as possible, so that if someone came in while I was in the shower they’d both come crashing down. With a bit of luck I’d have enough time to grab my clothes and get dressed.

  The shampoo on the shelf was bland and sticky, and the water was only tepid, but I was grateful for both. I felt better after my shower. Maybe everything would be okay.

  The day passed in a haze of fear and boredom. I didn’t have any paper left, so I wrote and doodled in the margins of my guidebook. I began David Copperfield—I’d seen a movie version with Daniel Radcliffe, the Harry Potter guy, and scenes came back to me as I read. At first I was discouraged because I didn’t know what a caul was and therefore had no idea what the first page was all about, but it turned out not to matter. What came after that page was easy to understand, and it was wonderful to have a distraction from the present.